


By the Pale Moonlight

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Job, Crack, Feeding by hand, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Jealous Sherlock, John and Sherlock in a gay bar, John is a Sex God, M/M, Made-up mythical creatures, Mutual Masturbation, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot, Silly with a side of erotic, Smut, Were John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7347025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock notices that once a month, John gets tarted up, slips off to parts unknown, and stays gone till the next morning with nary an explanation. Sherlock can't resist a mystery of any stripe, but certainly not one that involves JOHN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Pale Moonlight

) 0 (

 

Sherlock made certain John wasn’t glancing backwards as he followed him across the intersection and down the darkened street. John kept up a lively step, whistling to himself, and Sherlock quickened his own pace to keep him in sight. He moved close to the building fronts, slipping behind a group of blokes out on a stag do when John did happened to turn his head.  The detective had left his distinctive Belstaff at home, wearing simply dark jeans and a black shirt to better blend into a crowd, but there was no sense in giving John a direct view of him.

John slowed as he neared a nightclub, glancing up with a look of utter delight as he read the sign, obviously deciding to go inside. The bouncer nodded, giving John his approval, and let him in before the fashionistas queued impatiently along the pavement. Curious. This particular establishment happened to be a _gay_ night spot. Not John’s usual haunt at all.

Sherlock’s flatmate had lived with him for three months before he’d managed to notice the repeating pattern in John’s nocturnal behavior.  John’s part time schedule at the surgery kept him to a fairly regular bedtime if they didn’t have a case on. Weekends though would see him out for a pint with friends, or taking some new woman he’d met in a coffee shop or in line at Tesco’s out for dinner. The women never lasted long of course, not with Sherlock interrupting with urgently escalating text messages over the course of the evening . . .

_Bored. – SH_

_Still Bored. – SH_

_Intolerably bored. - SH_

_John, would you be adverse to sacrificing your tan jumper for science?  - SH_

_John, do we have any more of that burn cream that works so well? – SH_

_John, don’t mind the fire trucks when you come home. Their arrival was purely a formality. I have the situation well under control – SH_

Still bland women and friends aside, once a month, John’s regular behavior changed markedly. It annoyed Sherlock that he hadn’t caught the connection the last two times it had occurred.  Of course the first time it could have been a simple aberration, and the second time, Sherlock had been knee deep in tracking that online embezzling case. He’d almost been grateful when John had stopped fidgeting around the flat and taken himself out.

Now though, three times in, and Sherlock could definitely see the shape of it.  Once a month, John carefully showered and shaved in the evening, doused himself in a pricey cologne, and put on his best date clothes despite not having arranged any assignations. He'd jokingly inform Sherlock not to wait up, he’d be out late, and after slipping his merrily jingling keys into his pocket, skip down the stairs, and not resurface until sometime the next morning.

Sherlock had certainly seen John on the pull before – that was nothing new. You couldn’t go out with the man and not watch him turn his charm on at any given opportunity. Meter maids, waitresses, clients, and even sodding Sally Donovan were not immune when a twinkle appeared in John’s eye or that saucy little smile crept across his handsome face.  Not that John’s face was particularly _more_ handsome than most, but it certainly had a pleasing appearance all things considered.  Still, these once a month outings seemed to push John’s activities with the opposite sex to some new level . . . or perhaps same sex as well if John’s current location of “Nirvana,” a notoriously queer London bar was anything to go by. Something about it felt _off_ though, and Sherlock was determined to find out why.

Sherlock ducked his head, and entered the club after slipping the bouncer a few notes to let him jump the queue as well. He stood for a moment taking stock of the place, letting the pounding music wash over him. Coloured lights slashed over the group undulating across the dance floor while other well-groomed individuals pressed close together, clutching drinks and yelling into each other’s ears to be heard. Sherlock scanned the mass of humanity irritably before finally spotting John in with the dancers.

John seemed to be in the center of a small whirlpool forming in the midst of the writhing chaos. He had three, no four handsome young men dancing around him, vying for his attention. Sherlock snorted in amazement. One of the twinky boys backed up to grind his arse right against John’s pelvis in some blatant pantomime of mating. John obligingly swung his hips, thrusting back in time to the ear-splitting music. The boy didn't keep his place of honour long though as a silver and blue haired confection edged him aside to grind his own crotch against John's gyrating front. Behind them, two muscle-bound creatures contented themselves with crowding against John’s back, bumping along to the pounding beat. John smiled broadly with his eyes closed, obviously enjoy the touch, but the look on the men dancing around him was downright _hungry_.

Sherlock made his way up to the bar, ordered a pint, and found an unlit place against the wall where he could lean to watch the drama unfold.

The fit young things contending for John seemed to back down in the face of a clear victor. Sherlock watched as a brawny bloke with Celtic knotwork inked over his bicep broke from the pack to lead a grinning John toward the toilets. Sherlock thought about intervening, almost did, but the two were back in only a matter of minutes, the tattooed one looking gobsmacked, and John appearing almost peaceful as he slid into another crowd of waiting, eager young men. This little ritual was repeated twice more before Sherlock felt his blood pressure and his anger reaching dangerous levels. This was simply unacceptable! Was John planning to shag the ENTIRE bar that night? How dare these men lay hands on his flatmate. Sherlock was the one who had discovered the ex-army doctor, bringing him back from the depths of a crippling depression. These men knew nothing about the complex man that John was, nothing!

Sherlock watched, aghast, as some young slip of an _infant_ pulled John into a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. Sherlock's frown grew thunderous. The NERVE. Making a decision, he abandoned his half-full glass of beer, slamming it on the bar top, and plunged into the fray. The entire dance floor seemed to have re-oriented itself into concentric rings around John, and Sherlock found himself working his way past flailing bodies with some difficulty, much like a salmon swimming upstream, to reach his friend.

“JOHN. Come, it’s urgent, I need you.”

Sherlock pitched his voice to carry over the trashy dubstep beat, and John responded almost immediately, eyes snapping open to fix on him. His movements were slow, his pupils dark, almost overtaking his irises, but he recognized Sherlock immediately, and made no protests as Sherlock grabbed his wrist to tug him away from his place of honor in the pit of debauchery. The other dancers groaned collectively, and a few made to halt their progress, but Sherlock hadn’t studied fencing and three forms of martial arts for nothing. He elbowed and shoved any protestors aside, quickly making a path for him and his flatmate to the nearest exit. They tumbled into the cooler air outside with relief. Sherlock finally allowed himself a deep breath as he rounded on John to grill him on the reason for the spectacle of the evening.

“What exactly . . .” Sherlock managed to get out before he froze.

John, stood, illuminated in the dim light of a street lamp, panting, his fair hair tousled fetchingly, his shirt askew, half unbuttoned, his eyes wide and guileless, and the most disarming smile playing over his lovely mouth. Sherlock sucked in a breath trying to gather his forces when the scent of John washed over him, and Sherlock nearly choked.  The cologne that John had put on earlier seemed to have intensified, deepened, becoming infinitely more complex as it mixed with the earthy smell of John’s person, and the tang of his sweat. Sherlock tried swallowing as his mouth had gone completely dry.

“John . . . what . . .”

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” John didn’t sound angry exactly, in fact he seemed quite pleased to see Sherlock. John tilted his head slightly, stepping closer to curve a hand along the back of his neck, drawing him down. Sherlock felt a whole body tremor course over him as John’s lips drew nearer to his own.

“Well, hello there, gorgeous. Don’t tell me you’re taken for the whole evening?” someone purred nearby. 

Sherlock’s head snapped up to locate the source of the interruption. He found the speaker, a man in a mesh tee ripped in some strategic places staring avidly at John, was only one of the sizeable group that had followed them out to the pavement.

“Yes, he IS.” Sherlock growled at the man before whirling about, catching John’s arm up again, and continuing his quest to pull him farther away from his band of admirers. Thankfully, John didn’t offer much resistance, and he kept up with Sherlock’s long pavement-eating steps as he hurried them away. A few of the pretty boys drifted after them half-heartedly, but once they had put some distance between them, the groupies gave up and returned to the club.

Sherlock managed to relocate John around the corner to a street less filled with pedestrians when they stopped to catch their breath.

“John, what in the world  . . .”

“Sherlock . . . I . . .”

John stepped closer, and that marvelous smell washed over Sherlock again, _musk, bay rum, sweat, John, delicious, want, JOHN,_ and he felt his knees buckling, no longer adequately supporting his weight. Sherlock glanced quickly around, feeling desperate, and found a café still open a few doors down.

“Coffee.” Sherlock barked in explanation as he stumbled forward, dragging John with him toward the lit windows.

“Yeah, alright,” John agreed, allowing himself to be pulled along into the late-night diner.

Sherlock manhandled John into an open booth before seating himself across from him. The light was overly bright after the dimness of the street, and Sherlock squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He was certain the unforgiving glare was doing nothing for his pale, pasty English complexion, but one glance at John confirmed that his friend looked if anything, even MORE attractive in the harsh overhead light.

The slight tan on John’s face glowed almost golden giving his features a luminous quality, while his gorgeous dark blue eyes put Sherlock in mind of fields of cornflowers, or perhaps a deep summer sky just before a storm. Sherlock felt that he could simply fall into those eyes and keep going.  He leaned in to examine the pattern of John’s irises. Why had he never noticed the flecks of hazel in John’s eyes before? Exquisite!  John looked down at the table top, his long golden eyelashes sweeping down to cover those beautiful eyes as he reached out to fiddle with the salt shaker.  Sherlock’s gaze moved down too, watching the play of John’s hands as he slid the shaker back and forth.

“Sherlock, look, there’s something I’ve meant to tell you.” John sighed. “I didn’t plan to keep it a secret, I just didn’t know how to explain it . . .”

 John had such _nice_ hands, square, sturdy, competent – it was something that Sherlock had long admired about his flatmate, his solidness, his there-ness.

“. . . but seeing as you followed me tonight, I might as well . . .”

Sherlock found himself looking up to better concentrate on the shape of John’s mouth as he spoke.  How lovely the curve and dip of John’s mouth was, so eloquent, so perfect in its design as his lips parted for open throated vowels or worked in tandem with this teeth and tongue to produce fricatives. Just stunning. John was, not to put too fine a point on it, simply a magnificent example of a man. THE man.

“Good evening! What I can bring you two fellows tonight?” The arrival of the waitress was an unwelcome distraction.

“Two coffees,” Sherlock snapped.

“Alright.” The woman smiled, jotting his order down on her notepad.  She swung her gaze to include John, and Sherlock watched as her whole demeanor changed when her eyes landed on the doctor properly. The waitress shifted her weight, pushing one hip out as to better cant her ample chest forward in John’s direction.  She smiled, and spoke in a voice much higher and threadier than previously used. “Would you like anything to go with it? We’ve some nice pies on tonight.” She made it sound as if she were discussing something much different than the mere selection of pastries.

“Mmm, okay.” John smiled back at her, and the woman looked as if she might keel over. “What do you have?”

“There’s apple, custard, and banoffee,” The waitress replied obviously speaking on autopilot as her eyes grew wider and wider to better drink John in. She leaned forward, her bright pink lips parting as she breathed, “Personally, I recommend the custard.”

“Fine, we’ll take that, and an apple,” Sherlock said loudly, breaking the trance the woman seemed to have slipped into, “and hurry, please, we don’t have much time.”

“Right-o.” The woman blinked rapidly, coming back to herself. “I’ll have that in just a moment.” 

“Oi, how do you know I didn’t want the banoffee?” John laughed as the woman scuttled off, throwing a lingering glance over her shoulder.

“You hate banoffee,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, you’re right, I do.” John tilted his head as he smiled fondly at Sherlock. The tip of John’s tongue dipped out to moisten his bottom lip, and just like that, Sherlock went hard. What was _wrong_ with him tonight? A simple lip licking had never had such a pronounced effect on him before. Sherlock surreptitiously reached under the table to adjust himself.

“Sherlock. Listen, I’m sorry. I meant to tell you earlier, but there never seemed to be a good time . . .”

“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “After tonight I’m certainly well aware of your status.”

“You are?” John’s beautiful eyes widened in surprise.

“Of course.” Sherlock snorted. “I’d suspected earlier that you were bisexual, but tonight’s proceedings confirmed it.”

“Oh, right. Well, I am.” John blew out a breath as he sat back in his seat. “That isn’t what I meant though. It’s a bit more complicated than just that.”

“Really?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it’s a family thing  . . .”

“Here, we are, gents, two coffees, nice and hot.”  The waitress bustled in between them. She slid the two cups onto the table along with a small pot of milk, making sure to bend deeply when she faced John so that her décolletage showed to best light.

“Ta.” John smiled at the woman, pulling the milk closer to pour a dollop into his cup.

“It’s my pleasure, luv.” The waitress batted her eyes almost comically at John. “I’ll be right back with the pie. Don’t go anywhere, alright?” She reached out to squeeze his forearm before withdrawing to the kitchen.

“Good God.”  Sherlock huffed at the retreating waitress’s back. “Where does she think you’re going to go?”

“Well, you can hardly blame her.” John shrugged.

“Blame her? Of course I do. This is practically sexual harassment. I mean certainly you’re an attractive man, but this is absurd.”

“So, you think I’m attractive?” John smiled that adorable little smile again, and Sherlock felt his heart turn over.

“Yes, of course, John. Despite your war injuries, you remain in good physical condition. Your dimensions are in classical proportions, and your face is pleasingly symmetrical - all clear standards for beauty. Plus by your walking patterns, I can tell that you have a larger-than-average sized penis, an attribute than many lovers find quite . . .”

Sherlock stopped, horrified by the torrent of words spilling unchecked from his mouth. He reached out blindly and grabbed his coffee to take a drink. The hot, bitter liquid sloshed over his tongue and he winced. He reached for the cup of sweeteners, and grabbed several packets of sugar to empty into his cup.

“Oh, right.” John seemed to deflate a bit. “I’d forgotten for a moment. It’s the full moon. I really shouldn’t ask you things like that right now.”

“What’s the full moon got to do with it?” Sherlock snapped irritably, finding himself fighting an irrational desire to climb over the table and merge into John’s lap. He felt horribly foolish for it, and blushed.

“Well, that’s the thing, the full moon is when . . .”

“Custard pie,” The waitress chirped brightly, returning with their food. She leaned over to brush her breast against John’s arm as she set the dessert in front of him. Absent-mindedly she dropped the slice of apple pie near Sherlock with a clatter. “And some extra napkins if you need them.”  She winked as she moved in further to deposit a folded napkin in John’s lap.

“Oh, for Godsake,” Sherlock rumbled.

“Thanks, this is fine.” John kindly but firmly removed the woman’s hand from the vicinity of his crotch.

“Alright, luv. Just let me know if you need anything else. I’m Tasha, by the way.”

“Thanks, Tasha. We’re good.” John glanced pointedly at Sherlock, and the woman startled as if only now registering that Sherlock was sitting with him despite having served him something twice.

“Yes, of course.” The woman looked a bit embarrassed as she collected herself and moved to check on another table.

“Well, if this is the response you get each time you go out, I can certainly see why you pull so many partners.” Sherlock took another sip of his coffee, finding it cooler, but still too bitter despite all the sugar he had dumped in. His gaze drifted down to follow the lines of John’s shirt. It was on the tight side, and he could just make out the curves of John’s defined biceps straining against the fabric. Sherlock swallowed half his cup down in one go without meaning to.

“Actually, it’s not.” John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He reached for his coffee, taking a mouthful before setting the cup down with a soft click.  “I mean I do alright, generally, but it’s only once a month that it’s like this.”

Sherlock watched mesmerized as John lifted a forkful of pie to his mouth, his perfect lips sliding over it to consume the bite. John chewed thoughtfully for a moment before continuing, and Sherlock felt himself straining against the table, wishing it weren’t such a wide barrier between them.

“It’s worse when I’m not with a partner which is why I TRY to find someone steady.” John forked up another section, and swallowed it down, licking some remaining custard off the back of the tines.  “It’s something to do with the pheromones. Having a regular partner tends to diminish the effect.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how much more of this torment he could take.  His cock had swelled to its almost completely erect state watching John fellate his flatware, and the restraining pressure of his flies was quickly becoming a hazard.

“John, what _are_ you talking about?” Sherlock burst out, completely confused. The detective suspected that the vast quantities of his blood heading southward was the main reason his mental facilities had become so muddled. He could do nothing to stop the direction of the tide, and the discomfort was almost unbearable.

“I love it when you scrunch your nose like that.” John said in answer, tipping his head to drop his voice lower. “Do you know I’ve always wanted to kiss it? Every damn time.”

Sherlock felt the last cognitive gear still spinning in his brain grind to a halt.  “You have?”

“Absolutely.”  John licked his lips again, and leaned further over the table. Sherlock felt them drawing closer together, pulled in tandem as inexorably as oppositely-charged magnets seeking their grounded state.

Finally, finally, their lips connected. John’s mouth, warm and sweet, moved over Sherlock’s in incredibly soft caresses. That smell, that amazing smell, now mixed with the scent of coffee and pastry wrapped over Sherlock sending his arousal spiraling upward.  John groaned, a gorgeous sound pulled deep from his chest, and Sherlock nearly exploded inside his pants. If he could have withstood the prying eyes, Sherlock felt certain he might have swept their dishes to the floor, and taken John right there on the formica table top, propriety be damned. In a way that he had never felt before, Sherlock _wanted._ He panted, stunned, staring at the landscape of John’s perfect face when they came up for air.

“Can I get you lads anything else?” They jerked apart as the damned waitress stuck her nose in again to smile at John. Somehow the fact that John had just had his lips locked over Sherlock’s hadn’t diminished the woman’s ongoing inappropriate interest in his flatmate.

“No, thanks, just the check, please,” John replied.

 _Dear man, clever man._ Sherlock was infinitely grateful that John had retained the wherewithal to answer their irritating server as he seemed to have completely lost the ability to put thoughts into spoken word.

The woman looked disappointed, but after a few more flirtatious quips, finally provided them with a slip of paper and miraculously departed.

“Aren’t you going to eat your pie?” John asked. “It looks good.”

Sherlock nodded or shook his head, one or the other, he wasn’t sure, and John laughed in response.

“Come on, you, open up,” John teased. He reached down to break off a bit of the crust and fruit, and proceeded to push it against Sherlock’s lips until he opened his mouth to accept the offering. It was delicious, and Sherlock closed his eyes to better enjoy the feeling of sliding the slippery sweet baked good from John’s lovely fingers with his mouth. When he was done, John scooped up a bit more.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what benevolent deity he had managed to impress, but by some luck or good fortune, Sherlock was sat in some second-rate establishment in Soho enjoying the blissful sensation of licking cinnamon and sugar and crumbly pastry from John’s hand, over and over, until it was all gone.

“Well, then.” John’s pupils had blown wide, veritable oceans of black before him. “If I’d known all I had to do to get you to eat was feed you by hand, I’d have started this ages ago.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded weak and reedy to his own ears, a mere puff of air. He reached out to grab a fistful of John’s shirt, anything to anchor him in the free-for-all tumble he seemed to have jettisoned off to. Thankfully, John didn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah.” John nodded as if agreeing to something, a meltingly-soft expression on his face. “Shall we go home?”

“Oh, yes, _please_.” Sherlock managed to answer, greatly proud of himself. Somehow he’d been able to form three whole words . . . in a row . . . and they seemed to be achieving the desired goal of moving him and a gorgeous, willing John toward somewhere private. It was more than he could have hoped for in the barely-acknowledged fantasies that occasionally crept into his consciousness when he drifted between waking and sleep.

John produced some bills to throw down onto the table, and taking Sherlock’s hand in his own, guided him lovingly out of the café. The waitress may have called a wistful good-bye to their backs, but Sherlock was hardly focused on anything beyond the lovely man tugging him along, leading him back onto the street.

Sherlock was certain they had stumbled along looking for a cab to take them back to Baker Street, that would have been the logical thing to do, but the next thing he knew, they were in a dark alley, and Sherlock had John pressed against the brick wall, his tongue in John’s mouth, and his hands making their way into John’s pants.

“Sherlock, God, Jesus Christ, . . . fuck,” John chanted a litany of curses and nonsense into Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock managed to work John’s trousers and pants down just far enough to wrap his fingers around the shorter man’s straining cock. Oh. It was just as large as Sherlock had deduced, but so much warmer and magnificent, like holding velvet over a steel rod nestled in the palm of his hand. Sherlock moved his wrist experimentally and John groaned long and low, nearly collapsing against him. Sherlock shivered at the privilege of being able to touch John in this way. He worked his hand up and down absorbing each and every sound and twitch John gave in response. Sherlock had almost completely whited out his own aching need so lost in his delight at touching John, until wonderful, so resourceful John managed to get past Sherlock’s barriers to release his prick as well. Sherlock cried out, arching as if tasered as John cupped him, grinding the base of his palm into his erection. Things went a bit fuzzy then, and next Sherlock knew, John was on his knees, working his mouth up and over the length of him. Sherlock gasped like a fish out of water, fingers clutching at John’s shoulder when he came with a roaring force that turned him inside out. It was almost incomprehensibly overwhelming, like finding himself suddenly standing on the surface of Mars, or falling out of his familiar green armchair into a rolling ocean.

When Sherlock finally returned to his senses, John was cradling him in his lap on the ground, petting his hair, and crooning sweet nothings into his ear.

“John, what, what?” Sherlock blinked up at him in shock.

“I know. Come on, let’s get a cab.”

“Alright.” Sherlock felt weak as a kitten as he let John tuck him back into his clothes, and chivvy him to a main road where they finally found a taxi to ferry them home.

Once they made it to their front door, up the maddening stairs, and through the kitchen to the closest bed, tossing clothes behind them as they went, it was only a matter of falling together, free, finally free to touch, taste, nip, devour, clutch and howl until they fell asleep close to dawn exhausted, but finally sated.

When Sherlock blinked awake, it was to strong late morning light streaming in through curtains that hadn’t been pulled closed at bedtime. He felt strange, both cotton-headed as if he’d been drinking heavily the night before, though he knew that wasn’t true, and oddly elated as if he’d taken a hit of something stronger, though he knew that was equally untrue. Sherlock had ingested nothing worse than half a glass of a mid-priced ale, some coffee, and a delightfully-delivered slice of apple pie if his memory served him correctly.

 The warm presence still sleeping peacefully beside him, tangled in the bedcovers half on and half off the bed, with one sturdy calf thrown possessively over his own was of course the source of both his discomfort and happiness. John, glorious John. HIS John if the night before was anything to go on, and not simply a one-off, fever dream shag caused by the full moon or some madness in the air. Hang on, hadn’t John been going on about something related to the full moon the night before? It was all such a muzzy mix in his head, punctuated with such heart-stoppingly good sex, Sherlock could hardly remember anything they’d actually _talked_ about.  He remembered the sounds John had made though when he’d pressed inside him, and his cock gave a half-hearted twitch in salute though it was clearly too done in to be much good in the immediate future. What a night.

John made a snuffling sound, and tried to burrow deeper into the pillows and Sherlock’s shoulder. It was so utterly adorable, Sherlock had to roll onto his side and kiss John’s face repeatedly until John surrendered his claims to sleep and woke properly. He blinked his beautiful deep blue eyes open, and smiled as if the sun had risen for him alone when he saw Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock, GOD, look at you. You beautiful, beautiful man.” John reached up to tousle his fingers into the horrible mess that was Sherlock’s hair, smoothing it back, and scratching his fingernails lightly against his scalp until Sherlock nearly purred like a cat. God, how did John know how much he liked that?

John let a smile of such pure unadulterated bliss unfurl across his face, that Sherlock DID make a sound like purring cat then in the back of his throat.

It took but a moment more when something horrible happened. John seemed to jolt to an awareness as if he had been sleepwalking. His beautiful, contented expression crumpled like a bit of paper in the rain, and he pushed himself away from Sherlock, sitting up to clutch at his face as he moaned. “NO, no, oh GOD, no!” He looked devastated.

“What? John what is it?” Sherlock had no idea what had caused John’s terrible distress, but he would do anything in his power to fix whatever had John so distraught.

“I seduced you. Against your will. God you must HATE me.” John looked ready to cry.

“John. What madness are you going on about?” Sherlock bristled, yanking the sheet up to better cover himself as he pushed to an upright position as well. The covers slipped further off of John leaving him nearly bare, but neither of them noticed at the moment as John continued to wail.

“But that’s just it, the pheromones! They make people come after me.”

“Is it against their will?”

“What?”

“These pheromones of yours, do they make people seduce you against their will?” Sherlock ever the scientist, refused to be pulled under by the avalanche of emotion sloshing over them despite the fact that his heart had gone nearly cold with the idea that John regretted their night together.

“Well, no, they just heighten people’s interest in me, generally,” John admitted “but you don’t ‘do relationships,’ married to your work . . . not interested in me.” John seemed to be babbling when Sherlock scooted closer to lay a hand to John’s thigh.

“John, believe me, I did nothing last night that I haven’t been dying to do for weeks. I’m sorry . . . I thought you might have been coming on to me that first night in Angelo’s, but I wasn’t sure, and I panicked. I never meant to put you off. Not really. I’m an idiot. Whatever this was . . .” Sherlock waved a hand between them. “I gave full consent.”

“Imma wereslut.” John hiccupped dolefully.

“A WHAT?” Sherlock raised both eyebrows.

“I'm a wereslut.” John enunciated more carefully. “It’s like a werewolf, it happens each full moon, but instead of turning into a wolf, I turn into a pheromone-laden, walking sex machine.”

“Is it contagious?” Sherlock asked, a frown pulling his eyebrows together.

“No, NO. It’s genetic.” John huffed miserably. “It runs on my mother’s side. Harry has it too, but her presentation is weaker. Generally people just want to buy her lots of drinks during her time of the month. With me, it’s a full on contact-high lust.”

“You said it was weaker if you had a regular partner.” Something of their garbled conversations of the evening before was trickling back in to Sherlock’s abused brain as he pieced snippets of memory together.

“Yeah, that’s right. If I’m having regular sex with the same partner, the effects are much less at the full moon. The pheromones aren’t nearly as strong. I don’t need to worry about battling off the hordes.” The side of John’s mouth tipped up wryly.

 “I’d like to volunteer.”

“What?” It was John’s turn to look confused.

“I volunteer to be your regular partner,” Sherlock said in a rush.

“Sherlock.” John looked embarrassed. He reached out to tug some of the covers away from the bundle over Sherlock, pulling the sheet to at least fully cover his lap.“I can’t ask you to do that just because you feel like you owe me something.”

“John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock growled as he reached out to grasp John’s bicep and gently shake him. “Last night was the best thing that’s ever happened to me, YOU are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I’ll be thrice damned if I let you throw it away over some misguided sense of chivalry!”

“Oh.” Something bright had begun to stir in John’s eyes. Sherlock felt a wave of pure relief flood over him as the distress in John’s face finally faded to be replaced by a shy smile. “I tried so hard to hide it from you.”

“Please don’t ever hide yourself from me again. I want you, John. All of you, regardless of this wereslut business. I  . . . love you.”

“Oh God, Sherlock. I love you too.”

Although Sherlock thought that his cock had been completely put off line for the day after the previous night’s activities, this proved to be not quite accurate. After trips to the loo, and a hastily gulped breakfast of cereal and milk, the two retreated back to Sherlock’s bed and continued to demonstrate just how truly fine Sherlock was with John being a wereslut, HIS wereslut.  

Sherlock was thrilled to discover that John was ticklish on the soles of his feet and backs of his knees, and completely lost his mind when Sherlock sucked at his nipples. John kept them quite busy finding all the things that made Sherlock lose his ability to string thoughts together, and it was nearing dark before they finally made it out to forage for some dinner.  

They decided on Angelo’s, agreeing they needed to make some better memories of the restaurant to add to their growing collection of fond moments together. Sherlock laced his fingers in with John’s as they walked side by side, smiling down at the remarkable man, proud beyond all reason to have John as his partner now in every way.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank my lovely husband for the plot bunny that slipped this little story into my consciousness. I blame him completely for the term "wereslut." This one's for you, sweetie. ;)


End file.
